


Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist.

by momoko



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (you would be if you had watched yourself decay), Barely Even There OCs, Celegorm's Fucked Up, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, Halls of Mandos, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Spoilers for The Silmarillion, The Silmarillion References, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momoko/pseuds/momoko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches as his eyes liquefy, run down his sunken face in place of tears. His body bloats, push outwards, the gas collecting in his body port-mortem pushing at the seams of his person, pushing and collecting.  His hair stays gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MUFFLED BY PILLOWS, OR WHISPERED IN SLEEP,

**Author's Note:**

> In which we see Celegorm drive himself insane, and gift his insanity to others.

 

* * *

 NAMES CALLED OUT ACROSS THE WATER, NAMES I CALLED YOU BEHIND YOUR BACK, SOUR AND DELICIOUS, SECRET AND UNREPEATABLE, THE NAMES OF FLOWERS THAT OPEN ONLY ONCE, SHOUTED FROM BALCONIES, SHOUTED FROM ROOFTOPS, OR MUFFLED BY PILLOWS, OR WHISPERED IN SLEEP, OR CAUGHT IN THE THROAT LIKE A LUMP OF MEAT.

* * *

 

Weeds push through the roof of Celegorm’s mouth, their lilac seeds like cotton eyelashes; feathery leaves tickle the roof of his mouth, invading in hordes, new blood push through his nostrils and through his flesh. Fungus sprout up from his greying skin, their reds and browns like infections of skin, replacing sinew, replacing bruising and blood. He watches as his eyes liquefy, run down his sunken face in place of tears. His body bloats, push outwards, the gas collecting in his body port-mortem pushing at the seams of his person, pushing and collecting. His hair stays gold.

 

He watches himself explode, scatter his chunks across the land, his own guts grey and stinking, he watches an era go by, and watches himself decompose, decay.

 

He watches on as birds and butterflies, scavengers of all kinds, strip his bones of any remains of flesh. The flooding of Beleriand brings muddied waters over his sun-bleached bones, drowns the weeds that tangled themselves over his bones, watches the remnants of a once handsome body turn into nothing. His hair floats, shining on the tops of waters, looking like sunlight glancing off ripples.

 

It breaks his mind even more, his insanity spiraling as he watches. He watches his ghosts of twins turn into fathers and grandmothers, watch them watch him, their eyes boring into his eyes, their faces watching. The colour of his hair taints his vision when he sees them, the strands cutting.

 

He watches for a thousand more years, watches humans die. He watches them die, sees squalling babes expire at the breasts of their mothers and their mothers die with blood not even dry between their legs. Watches children catch colds and pass with blood still warm on their lips and spattered on blankets, watches the old break their frail bones stumbling, sees the wrinkles and folds in their skin, sees age.

 

Watches young men embitter themselves, marching for kings that die just as easily as them. Sees them kill for sport and metals like his hair. Young maidens dash themselves against rocks, scream as men invade their bodies, slick the ground with the blood from the throats of lesser men who dare touch them. He finds women just like gold and pewter, like molten copper when they move, their hips and legs like pure sex, movement liquid in a way that oozes sensuality.

 

Celegorm looks for himself in the humans, his eyes searching desperately to find a reflection. Sees them fuck and rut, moan like dogs in heat, live and die.

 

He can see nothing in himself worth noticing at all, so he goes searching for a human who can give him that sort of vicarious pleasure.

 

He finds himself first in the young girl with black hair. He steals away her eyes and tongue, places his sight in her sockets and his voice in her mouth. She does not laugh nor cry nor scream. She murders her father without thought when he marries her to a villain against her will. She does his head in with his own sword, and dashes her husband’s against the headboard of their marriage bed.

 

She dies proudly, her face as cold and unfeeling as the day she was born, swinging from her rope like how she used to swing her legs, her silver choker glittering yellow in the dewy sunlight.

 

He finds a boy with hair like his and a smile as cruel, and violently emotional. The boy’s mouth red like blood on Celegorm’s hands, as shiny and slick. The boy finds women to fuck and men to be fucked by; tangling his fingers in rough hair and screams for it, settles himself in the laps of infidels, lays his young body over the hills of women’s, pressed his lips to clavicles and shoulders, treating them all the same when morning comes-he takes their silver and gold, steals their coin and jewelry to be his own.

 

One day the boy meets a man, falls in love, and does not move on. The kisses he and the man share, the moans and pants, the sighs in their mutual bed, and if the boy was anything like him, Celegorm knows he has fallen in love with the man. He sees a bright light in the boy’s eyes, almost like the fire in Celegorm’s, sees a dawning madness in the man’s, see the boy murdered in the man’s bed.

 

He places himself in millions of humans, their lips curving like his, their eyelashes casting the same shadows on their cheeks, the core of their souls as raw and as unrefined as his, violent or cold or both, and watches them all die.

 

As Celegorm does so, he does so knowing that he is being watched. He does not care. The gaze that he longs for is turned in disgust from him, and he knows that no amount of begging can turn it back.

 

Celegorm loves him still, his golden eyes and broad shoulders, the boom of his voice and the muscles in his arm. Misses the shadows of his face in moonlight and the taste of his mouth, the warm rumble of his intonation and the weight of his hands on Celegorm’s hips and longs for anger at his misdeeds, longs for emotion, acknowledgment.

 

Celegorm’s voice is hardy ever heard, his poisoned words and venomous sentences unheard in the Halls anymore. Celegorm does not speak save for a name in the dawn, a name in the noontime and a name in the dusk, like prayer, like clockwork, a name that still rips him open inside and out, leave his eyes dry of tears.

 

Oromë.


	2. WE ARE NOT TRAITORS BUT THE LIGHTS GO OUT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit that I have been writing this piece mainly on hotel stationery, so updates will be a bit slow, and my summer is almost over. I've also recently started listening to BØRNS due the the pressure of a good friend, insisting that he was a perfect match for Maglor. The voice and the tone of the songs were SO GORGEOUS, but I'm on the fence about the face. Sorry, Matt, if you found my fanworks, you know Dae Na is my Maglor faceclaim and he is sooooooo pretty-I just cannot with that.

* * *

I TRY, I DO. I TRY AND TRY. A HAPPY ENDING? SURE ENOUGH — HELLO DARLING, WELCOME HOME. I’LL CALL YOU DARLING, HOLD YOU TIGHT. WE ARE NOT TRAITORS BUT THE LIGHTS GO OUT. IT’S DARK. SWEETHEART, IS THAT YOU? THERE ARE NO TEARS, NO PICTURES OF HIM SQUARELY. A SEASIDE FRAMED IN GLASS, AND BOATS, THOSE LITTLE BOATS WITH SAILS AFLUTTER, SHINING LIGHTS UPON THE WATER, LIGHTS THAT SPLINTER WHEN THEY HIT THE PIER.

* * *

 

 

         Celegorm plucks out his tongue to give to a girl, places it in lieu of hers. He wishes for her to grow tall and proud, to stop crying under her blankets at night. He sees her consume food in vast amounts and vomit them up. Sees her pick at her bones every morning and night, counts the russet hairs that fall from her head. Wants to rub away the bruises and cuts on her left hand in the cast of her teeth. Makes her sleep when she cannot. Sends her nightmares to keep her human. Gives her dreams in which she could be happy.

 

         She still takes her own life. Her body in the river, the silks of her dress weighed down by river water, rippling in the water like mockery of Ulmo’s greater waves, pondweed catching in her parted lips, fish swimming through her lifeless fingers. Her hair gleams dark red, like old blood, congealed blood, and Celegorm sees Maedhros, sees Amrod and Amras, and sees Amrod burn in fires as red as his hair, sees Amras’ blood bubble from the holes in his throat, hears the gurgle, sees Maedhros entrap himself into an inferno of eternal flame.

 

Sees his family burn.

 

         Celegorm looks down and sees his red hands, sees his blood and his brothers’ blood, the blood of twins, of their father, of their grandfather.

 

Celegorm’s throat works itself open and close, dry heaves turning into panicked pants turning into high whimpers, turning into a scream as agonizing as the molten flame that craves Maedhros apart, flesh his oldest brothers’ flesh, the Silmaril that bonds his sinew and muscle to his bones and cartilage. Celegorm screams and screams, tears at his skin with his nails, trying to claw himself apart, so he can open himself up and take out the bad in him and leave the good, carve away the rot in his morality, fix himself, be good.

 

He fails, and when he screams, he screams until he cannot, until his throat is raw and red and bleeding a little, he curls into a ball on the cool marble of the Halls and cries between his choking. Tyelkormo is unsalvageable from Celegorm. There is no amount of gold left in him anymore. He heaves it up on the floor, ichor dripping from his lips, pooling and mixing with saliva. The gold of his hair drenched in the red of his sins.

 

Celegorm sees the walls morph, faces of the twins and of Dior and of Luthien and of the countless kin he had murdered ooze out of the dark granite, their faces lolling and leering at him, jeering, words spitting at him from decayed mouth full of moths and carrion flesh, ceiling dripping congealed blood and filth.

 

Celegorm weeps silently as he pulls at his hair, trying desperately to get the filth off him, smearing ichor like war paint to salvage the gold still left in him.

 

It does not work.


	3. DASHED TO PIECES. MAKES A CATHEDRAL

* * *

ALL NIGHT I STRETCHED MY ARMS ACROSS HIM, RIVERS OF BLOOD, THE DARK WOODS, SINGING WITH ALL MY SKIN AND BONE PLEASE KEEP HIM SAFE. LET HIM LAY HIS HEAD ON MY CHEST AND WE WILL BE LIKE SAILORS, SWIMMING IN THE SOUND OF IT, DASHED TO PIECES. MAKES A CATHEDRAL, HIM PRESSING AGAINST ME, HIS LIPS AT MY NECK, AND YES, I DO BELIEVE HIS MOUTH IS HEAVEN, HIS KISSES FALLING OVER ME LIKE STARS. 

* * *

 

 

Celegorm rouses himself out of his madness. Time is unremarkable in the Halls. He does not know how long he lay there for. It could have only been a week to any number of years. Celegorm does not count the hours when he atones for his sins. He knows that time must be no matter when it comes to cleansing him of all filth, to return back to pure gold.

 

Celegorm’s throat is not raw, but sore, and the liquids and faces of his delusion is no longer there, which makes him think that it was just that-delusion-but he tastes the sickly sweet tang of ichor and smells the copper of jellied blood, and knows that he cannot fool himself.

 

He feels the gaze on the nape of his neck, feels it sear onto his flesh like a brand. He can almost smell the smoke of burnt skin. He refuses to get up, to turn around. He drags himself closer to the wall, and leans his head against it, wants the faces to come out again and eat him. Anything but this.

 

Celegorm misses his brothers. He cannot see them in death, and may never see them again. He will not be given mercy or euthanasia to ease his pain. The mud of his mind swirls, he feels his heavy heart seize in his chest, pumping sharply as he hears the fall of footsteps, feels telltale smarting in the center of his palms.

 

“Celegorm.”

 

         The voice drums in his head. Celegorm squeezes his eyes shut, presses himself closer to the wall, feels the wall shift, the solid turning to squelch, feels the lips form, part, sharp teeth pressing into his arm, wet, disgusting tongue come out to lick his arm, to eat him whole. Ichor runs on his face, the clawed skin of his face opening like an eye blinking.

 

         “Celegorm.” He repeats. “Look at me.”

 

         Celegorm could never refuse him, not now, especially not after everything. He said not to go, that he would regret it. Celegorm did. Celegorm came back from that mistake with faces morphing out of walls and demons in his head, scratching away and screaming at him, the press of guilt like being crushed.

 

         “My Lord Oromë.” He whispers, voice rasping.

 

         Celegorm turns, never getting up, turning until he can press himself again the wall. The mouth widens, and he feels a quick rush of relief-he is finally going to be taken away. The mouth slides close, and all there’s left is smooth wall, perfect and unmarred, and he whimpers, fear building up with the bile in the back of his throat, acid irritating the tender flesh of his esophagus.

 

         “Look at me.”

 

         Celegorm lifts his eyes up and up and up. His heavy lidded eyes traces up leather boots, canvas pants clothing firm thighs, loose shirt, up and over folded arms and its biceps and triceps, carved physique and over broad, broad shoulders draped with leathers and furs, to finally rest on the face of his salvation. Oromë stares down at him, and he feels like a rat, or a roach, or something even lower. He wants to look away but Oromë would be angry. So angry, and Celegorm does not want to have Oromë loathe him more then he already does. He feels the burn of tears, smells his coppery fear.

 

         “Stand up.” Oromë barks, and as Celegorm pushes himself to his feet, Celegorm bits back his tears, he sees the twins behind Oromë, sees their faces and blank eyes, and reaching hands, hands attached to arms that can stretch forever, always reach for him, for his throat.

 

         Celegorm does not fall, and he is proud of that, but the hands around his ankles grip tighter. They will not let him go.

 

         Celegorm cannot go. He is wrong and sinful and filth and he is not allowed to ever leave this room until he is shining gold again. He is not permitted happiness, not until he has atoned for the lives he’s taken, not until he had repented, not until the faces stop leering and become kind, until the twins and Dior and Luthien disappear from his view, when they do not crowd around him and plunge their hands into his chest and squeeze his heart.

 

         Luthien’s got hold of it now, her hands in his chest, gripping with her slender and wonderful fingers his heart tight, her hands sticky with his blood, his imperfections under her nails. He’s lucky that she will even touch him, even be willing to mar her perfect skin with the taint of his, even breathe the same tarred air as him.

 

         “You are afraid of me.” Oromë says, almost whispers, his gaze not quite softening.

 

         “Yes.” Celegorm braces himself. “My Lord.”

 

         Oromë is still looking down on him; mouth still twisted in a show of unknown emotion. Celegorm sees his hand rise and flinches.

 

         “I am not going to hurt you, Celegorm.” Oromë says as he lowers his hand, but Celegorm thinks, and knows that is a lie.

 

“They all say that when they first appear, but the elves that come to gawk will always turn into animals, like big cats, and they tear at me.” Celegorm sees the twins over Oromë’s shoulder, sees them morph together, pulling themselves into their father with thick strings and Dior smirks back at him, still in his robes and crown, still bloodstained, still vengeful and coming for him.

 

Celegorm closes his eyes, bows his head, anything to keep Dior from his sight. Celegorm feels him steal close, his breath fanning almost corporeal across his cheeks, illusions of slim arms reaching for him, to hold him, for bloodstained lips to touch to his cheeks, his ears, his mouth. His jaw tightens, before he feels the dew of dissipating fog, and his eyes fly open, to see Oromë much closer now, inches from him, his face tilted down as he towers over Celegorm.

 

He feels so small, feels even smaller when Oromë places his hands heavy onto his shoulder, feels the fingers curl gentle and intimate over his collarbones, hears simulated breath echo with his.

 

“What do you want?” Celegorm chokes out. “What more do I owe the Valar? My tongue, my eyes, what more do you need from me?”

 

Fingers now clench, pressing onto his bones.

 

“I want nothing but you. Whole, unharmed both in mind and body.” Oromë answers, low voice steady and warm. “I know you cannot give yourself nor your mind, and I will not press you until you find yourself willing. But I want you to be mentally sound, until you stop seeing these wraiths that you think you see.”

 

“They are right here.”

 

“Are they? Have I not chased them away? Are they still here?” Arched eyebrow at hand and a faintly amused look on face.

 

“For now.” Celegorm’s rebuttal is not as steady or as calm as he would like, and the tremor that run in the carriage of his own voice makes Oromë’s face sink back into a grim set.

 

Oromë takes him by his arm, gentle, and he guides him away. Celegorm spares not a single look for the room he has spent infinites in, despite the lulling song that it sings to him, a song that starts out as beautiful as Maglor’s laughter, and turns into the fury of Father’s bereavement, it’s shrieks of melancholy still calling him back in with a might that rivals the consuming flames of a Silmaril. Oromë takes him away from his own self induced torment, and Celegorm doubts.

 

Why would he take Celegorm, the traitor and the stained ghost, to be healed? There are insidious intentions underfoot, plans to break his bones where they cannot heal, to break and to bend until he becomes something they can puppet.

 

He wishes he could find kindness in Oromë’s motions towards him, to find true concern when one of Oromë’s furs are wrapped around him, to find love once again in his presence.

 

Celegorm lets Oromë steal him away, but he locks eyes with Mandos and sees nothing. Mandos’ eyes reflect his own doubt and panic back at himself, and Celegorm feels his cheeks go cold. Mandos is as empty as Celegorm, wearing a mask and a legacy to hide how blank he truly is.

 

Oromë wears an illusion of benevolence, rough happiness to cover the wild beast that roars in his breast. The wild cats and dogs that crawl in the shell of his head, the animals in there wilder then the waifs in Celegorm’s.

 

The Valar all hide under a façade, and when one of them drops theirs, it is a wild and cruel being that peer out of twin sockets; it is a thing that will claw angry at a psyche, at one’s shadow.

 

Finger-puppet.

 

Celegorm is tired, bone-wearingly so, and lets Celegorm be taken like an object, knowing deep down that he will be treated as such, and wishes to rest.


	4. NAMES LIKE PAIN CRIES, NAMES LIKE TOMBSTONES

* * *

NAMES OF HEAT AND NAMES OF LIGHT, NAMES OF COLLISION IN THE DARK, ON THE SIDE OF THE BUS, IN THE BARK OF THE TREE, IN BALLPOINT PEN ON JEANS AND HANDS AND THE BACKS OF MATCHBOOKS THAT THEN GET LOST. NAMES LIKE PAIN CRIES, NAMES LIKE TOMBSTONES, NAMES FORGOTTEN AND REINVENTED, NAMES FORBIDDEN OR OVERUSED.

* * *

 

Breathe in.

Purple unfurling, entwining with yellow.

Beat.

Rippling skin, stretched drum over bones.

Breath out.

Tightness, like a screw, as lungs push weakly out, ribs pushing outwards, opening like ivory gates at a hallowed hall.

Beat.

His own hipbones, cliff-like in their cut, the bruises under his eyes, the pallor of his skin and the bloodied skin crowning his knuckles.

 

Breathe.

 

Celegorm tears his eyes away from the mirror. It is unnatural in the emptied room that used to be his, in lifetimes ago. The bows and quivers that rested in the corner, left broken and rotting on the floors of ancient woods, now only sea-land groves with skies of water. Scrolls and clothes burned, gifts and trinkets collapsed under stones, now a drifting, hazy sphere belonging to a different gold-prince.

 

Celegorm covers his eyes and ducks out of the room, pulling the fine cotton of Oromë’s loaned shirt over his chest, to cover the malnourishment in his chest. The pad of his feet making no sound as he proceeds down the doorway, passing the old rooms of his brothers, emptied as his, the sunlight golden through the windows and opened doors, flung open in their centuried haste to leave.

 

Celegorm is a stray in the golden hall of his timeworn home, the high roof with the opening in the center, the sun raining down onto his shoulders, setting the gold and crystals embedded in the floors and walls and his hair on fire. It makes him dizzy, lowering his eyes from the glare to rest on the marble floor, the white laced with black, his bare toes as he picks his way along the lonely, wide room, retreating back to the rooms.

 

He collapses on Maedhros’ old bed, clenches his face in the sheets and inhales the phantom scent of his oldest brother. Tears prick at his eyes, but he is so exhausted, so tired of crying, of feeling and being hollow at the same time. Celegorm feels old, and though his visage does not show it, he feels like one of the Men, with lines and folds under his pseudo-young skin. There was no rest for him. There was no darkened sleep, no black Void waiting, and no darkness to fold him into its raven wings, just life as a dead soul, living again and again and yet again.

 

Loop.

 

Loneliness etched onto his bones, greasing his joints, the smell of old dust and dead brothers and godly old lover still stinging, the silence in his head ringing, a high bell that sounded long in his head, and a reality that he never wanted to revive. Guilt dripping syrupy through his body, fears pooling deep in the shadows of his spine, the oily tar of his sins burning holes, Celegorm felt them all.

 

His veins growing in-between the blue milk of eggshells; breath distilling their solidity; lashes clinging to glue or it is the glue that clings to lashes, aggravated nose, blurry vision, vision that goes bang when he’s around. Celegorm thinks about his lashes, the curve of his cheekbones and flushed lips, the blood that makes skin alive the same colour if it’s Oromë’s or his. Dark hair-dark eyes-pale skin and paler bones, sharp contrasts to what’s Oromë’s or his. Shared memories of the sun beating down into a stretch of young skin, blood leathering it like grapes morphing into raisins, the suppleness of cheeks sag with sorrow and murder like willows boroughs in old copses, shared breaths as they huddled, bridges stretched from his skin to Oromë’s, and now only blood drips through glass lines, like red strings of fate making Celegorm mere darling obligation.

 

“Celegorm?”

 

“Why do you stay?” Celegorm catches the sob, holds it tight, but it peeks through in the cadence of his voice.

 

“You know why.”

 

And oh yes, he knew, knew what kept Oromë in the doorway and standing in his father’s things. Knows that it’s guilt and love and duty gluing Oromë at his side. But when love is set by a sense of duty and its rules, it turns bitter and dark, rot where candy grows. Celegorm knows all these things and more. More things of the dark, of parasites and voracious filth, of the corruption that arrives at a city-gate with wondrous gifts and laden with golden knowledge-but with a price of firestorms and obliteration- leaving a broken nephew hoisted on a spear, broken bones torn from the hold of cartilage-flapping in the wind like any other heraldic pride.

 

Light fingers touch his spine, flesh sending phantom shock through to renewed bones, where marrow blown back to life lay. Celegorm resents touch and craves it, lays still and unmoving; no reaction to expressed love. Fingers tremble into a warm hand, far too warm, kiln warm, some sort of mock comfort on his back, and Celegorm feels the subjugated authority, reined in by cloak of flesh and plasticized veins and steel skeletons, a swirl of the cosmic heavens condensed and compressed into a case, a planet spinning lonely that could crush him, Eru, it makes him shrink and reach for it more.

 

“Have you eaten yet?” _I can feel your bones_. Oromë means to say.

 

Celegorm doesn’t want to eat.

 

“There is some stew for you.” And which one of you made it? Which one of you wanted to be human enough? “Fingon said you would prefer his.”

 

Fingon, the blaze in his brother’s eyes, the one that took him down from the cliff face, keeping Maedhros from being a mere plaything. The sylph that stole Mae’s breathes and heart, the pulsating organ beating a pace steadier than Maglor’s rhythms of love. A memory mired in dust that kept him trudging eons following.

 

“Do you want it?”

 

He wants to be alone. He wants to be alone.

 

Celegorm murmurs his acceptance, hums his dissent. A song that he dreams about, radiates from the cavernous yawn of a mouth, and simmers slowly in the low fog of the spheres.

 

Oromë makes his footsteps heard, so that Celegorm knows that he is going away. Going, going, as human as you want me to be.

 

Celegorm waits until the act of stepping has gone out of his earshot, and pulls a thing back to its feet. He shadows Oromë, following a broad back with a drilled instinct of trust, always trust and love and utter devotion, and always following, placing his feet in the larger imprints of Oromë’s, and the residual heat to warm his slighter body.

 

Celegorm decides to be disgusted with himself, stopping his longing feet in the hall, back in the place where the sun shone it’s diamond rays, it’s weak rays dimmer than silima, a mocking outline of the Trees. Celegorm sinks back down onto the floor, setting himself gingerly down upon the sun leeching marble, bending his boy-knees and craning his neck so his irises would blister with Arien’s fury.

 

He stares, the white bleeding into greens and purples, heat spots dancing across his vision.  


	5. A BOAT THAT’S SINKING TO THE SOUND OF MERMAIDS SINGING SONGS OF LOVE

 

­­­­­­­

* * *

A SUIT OF FUR, A COAT OF MUD, A KICK IN THE PANTS, A LUNGFUL OF GLASS, THE SAILS IN WIND AND THE SLAP OF WAVES ON THE HULL OF A BOAT THAT’S SINKING TO THE SOUND OF MERMAIDS SINGING SONGS OF LOVE, AND THE TUG OF A SIMPLE PROFOUND SADNESS WHEN IT SOUNDS SO FAR AWAY.  
HERE IS A MAP WITH A YOUR NAME FOR A CAPITAL, HERE IS AN ARROW TO PROVE A POINT: WE LAUGH AND IT PITS THE WORLD AGAINST US, WE LAUGH, AND WE’VE GOT NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE, AND OUR HEARTS TURN RED, AND THE RIVER RISES LIKE A BARN ON FIRE.

* * *

 

 

Weeping.

 

Forehead sticking to wall-he is sweating; sticky-his body is tightly wound. Tears streaking, pomegranate flushed face, salt water drying his lashes together. His hands-scabbed weakly-pressed to drywall, sweating too.

 

Lonely.

 

A villain-he decides. Gives himself a name and a meaning, and throws it away. Celegorm feels the anxiety rise in his body, flooding up from the base skin under his fragile little pink toenails up to the baby hairs growing from his scalp, in waves of tingles, the rush of heat drawing back with cold. His heart beats loud two-two beats, keeping even time even as the sounds get louder and louder, the pulsing of blood so frenzied that he feels his veins bulge and deflate, the drumming of his system overwhelming, violently oppressive with its amplified normalcy. Loud, loud, he craves touch and despises it.

 

His legs seem to melt, the pops of cartilage as they detach. Dior’s men were not happy, not gentle, as crazed as he was in the heat of blood-war and battle-fury. They pulled his legs from their joints, cracked them until he felt like a boar being roasted for a feast-burning-a sheep whose ribs are cracked upon to eat-raw flesh-knowing what it was like for Ambarussa to burn.

 

Wisps of air he pulls in through his teeth, inaudible whistling widening the gaps, his teeth throbbing in their seats, the gums sore. Panic and loneliness roared over him, as tall as the buildings and structures of Men, their metal crowns and spires brushing the skies and clouds that had before had only been the domain of Manwë and his birds.

 

Footsteps throbbed, their sound waves reverberating in his eardrums. Celegorm felt hands near, their presence pushing air, extending warm palms with phantom fingertips, prodding into his skin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rating and comments are important, please, please leave them down below and I'll LOVE constructive criticism as I am a new author. (pst I'm looking for a beta) 
> 
> If there is anything I need to tag or forgot to tag, please do tell me.
> 
> Also Emil Andersson is my face claim for Celegorm, I MEAN HAVE YOU SEEN THAT FACE STRUCTURE UGH. I've yet to find someone for Oromë.
> 
> The title and referenced poem are from one of my most revered poets-the amazing Richard Siken. Check out the poem here: http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/tag/richard-siken/. I love this poem so much, I don't think you can understand. 
> 
> My tumblr is here:http://dilokomi.tumblr.com/


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